


ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: D/s, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as Scott comes off the ice, he can see that Claude knows. He’s sitting in his stall, head ducked, shoulders locked. His bare feet look delicate under chunky shinpads, thick socks. There’s a single curl, matted with sweat, falling into his face. He doesn’t look up at the clatter of sticks and gloves and helmets, doesn’t even flinch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sorry about this. it is what it is.
> 
> i was talking about team dad scott hartnell with sarah, and the conversation turned to team DADDY scott hartnell. things escalated. this is not daddy kink, because i'm terrible at actually doing what people ask for
> 
> i'm not sorry about the title, either.

Claude knows.

As soon as Scott comes off the ice, he can see that Claude knows. He’s sitting in his stall, head ducked, shoulders locked. His bare feet look delicate under chunky shinpads, thick socks. There’s a single curl, matted with sweat, falling into his face. He doesn’t look up at the clatter of sticks and gloves and helmets, doesn’t even flinch.

Scott doesn’t talk to him. He goes through his post-game routine, gloves, helmet, jersey, chest pads, elbow pads, socks, shinpads, skates, shorts, underarmour. Shower. Suit. Media.

Claude’s waiting by his car when he emerges into the Wells Fargo parking lot. It’s cold enough that Scott can see his own breath.

‘Get in,’ he says, digging the key fob out of his pocket. Claude inclines his head and climbs into the passenger seat. In the overhead light, Scott can see the pink in his cheeks, on the ends of his fingers, the tips of his ears, and an idea flashes.

‘We’re going back to mine,’ he says, and Claude just nods, jerky. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but Scott snaps a look at him and he shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click.

The drive is silent and agonising. Scott thinks about what he needs to gather up before he can get started; the beginnings of arousal is starting to curl in his gut.

Claude’s leg is jiggling. Bouncing up and down, tap tap tapping on the carpet in the footwell. Scott reaches out when they’re at a red light and squeezes hard, just above the knee, where he knows Claude has a wicked bruise, all purple-blue and speckled in the middle. Claude makes a sound, and stops the jumping. It doesn’t move again until they’re pulling into Scott’s driveway.

‘Upstairs,’ he says, still in the car. ‘Clothes off, on your belly in the middle of the bed, arms above your head.’

Claude opens his mouth again and Scott squeezes the bruise again. Claude nods, blowing out a breath from his nostrils. Scott can see them flaring in the glow from the streetlight, and turns away to get out of the car.

Just before he shuts the door, Claude speaks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, shaky.

Scott shuts the car door and heads for his front door without even acknowledging it.

He takes his time around the house. Pours a glass of water from the pitcher in his fridge and drinks it, slow. Puts the glass in the sink, and retrieves a bottle of gatorade, a peach, a box of animal crackers. The vitamin E lotion from his downstairs bathroom.

He leaves his shoes in the hallway, tumbled with the rest of them, and pads upstairs softly, in socked feet. He’s not trying to be quiet, but if he catches Claude by surprise, well. It’s not the worst thing in the world.

Claude has a constellation of freckles that trickle across his shoulders and down the knobs of his spine, fading in the small of his back. It’s one of Scott’s very favourite things about him. He can see the freckles now, illuminated by the light from the lamp in the corner of the room. His feet, bare again, just hang off the edge of the bed; his toes are just brushing the polished wood of the trunk he keeps at the end of his bed. His wrists are folded together under his forehead. He doesn’t move when Scott comes into the room.

Scott leaves his spoils on top of the dresser and slides out of his suit jacket, hangs it on a hanger. Claude’s suit is hanging up on the door of his closet. His undershirt is folded neatly, underwear and socks in a careful pile next to his shoes.

‘Wanna tell me what you did tonight?’ Scott asks, tugging the knot out of his tie.

Claude shifts on the bed. ‘Took a bad penalty,’ he says, muffled by the sheets. ‘Cost the team the game.’

‘You know what happens now, right?’ Scott asks. He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, leaves it buttoned and tucked in, for now. His tie hangs loose around his neck.

Claude nods into his crossed forearms. ‘One for every ten seconds I was in the box, five for the goal they scored when I was in there.’ he says. The goal was scored fifty three seconds into the penalty. Scott doesn’t think he’s imagining the way his toes curl, just the tiniest bit, when he speaks.

Scott kneels by the foot of the bed and opens the trunk.

The paddle is small and black, round, like a ping pong bat, made of stiff, oiled leather. He has another, bigger one, but. He likes this one more. The grooves of the handle fit into his hand just so.

Claude is holding his breath when Scott climbs onto the bed. He trails the edge of the paddle up the back of one of his calves, making the hairs stand up.

Claude’s shoulders are set in concrete. He jerks once when Scott reaches the hollow of his knee, and again when he reaches the crease between ass and thigh.

‘Stay still,’ Scott says. The cool leather is resting on the meat of Claude’s ass. ‘You can be as loud as you like. Count the strokes.’ He pauses. ‘Give me a colour, Clo.’

‘Green,’ Claude says, immediately, hoarse. When Scott looks up the line of his body he can see tensed fists tucked under his head. His shoulder blades shift minutely.

Scott takes one breath, then another. Raises the paddle, and drops it back down, more of a tap than anything, right in the center of the left cheek. Claude tenses, but doesn’t make a sound.

‘Claude,’ Scott says, warning.

‘One,’ he says, voice tight.

Two is in exactly the same place, but twice as hard, and Claude gasps the number out, grinding into the bed a little.

Three is lower, at the bottom of the swell. Claude’s already starting to go pink. Scott runs his fingers over the skin to feel the warmth already bleeding through.

‘So responsive,’ he murmurs, caressing Claude’s ass a little. That’s another of his favourite things about Claude.

Claude whimpers, and pushes back into Scott’s hand. He pulls it away immediately. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You know better, baby.’

Claude stills. There’s a fine tremor just starting in the muscles in his thighs.

Four is fast and hard and sudden and Claude shouts it, bucking against the bed. Scott puts his hand on the small of Claude’s back, holding him still for five, six and seven in quick succession. Claude pants, chest heaving, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘What number?’ Scott asks, quiet. Claude’s breaths get faster, more panicked. Scott can see the whites of his knuckles just peeking out from under his curls, falling over his face, hiding his eyes.

Claude shakes his head.

‘What number, Claude?’

‘I don’t _know_ ,’ he bursts, and tries to curl in on himself; the only thing stopping him is Scott’s hand, solid on his back, holding him steady.

‘I’m sorry,’ Claude says, shaky. ‘I— I lost count, Scott, I’m sorry.’ Scott moves his free hand, strokes over the hot skin until Claude’s breathing steadies.

‘Seven,’ he says, quietly. ‘You get another two for losing count, though.’

Claude nods into his wrists again, and sniffles loudly.

‘Over halfway there, Clo,’ Scott says, gentle, and raises the paddle again.

He doesn’t lose count again, and twelve lands with a crack that makes Claude cry out in genuine pain, heaving in huge sobbing breaths.

‘That’s it,’ Scott says, dropping the paddle over the side of the bed and sinking back onto his heels. ‘We’re done, Clo, you’re done. You can move now, baby.’

Claude turns his head and curls into Scott’s knees. HIs face is streaked with tears. Scott strokes his hair, pushes it out of his face, thumbs at the tear-tracks carefully. ‘I got you,’ he murmurs. ‘I got you, baby.’

He runs his hand down Claude’s back, stopping just before the redness, lets him cry himself out before climbing off the bed and coaxing him onto his belly again to rub the lotion in in light, tight circles.

‘Are you going to fuck me?’ Claude asks, croaky. Scott thinks about it, palms his erection with his non-greasy hand. He’s fucked Claude after more of a beating.

‘No,’ he says, bringing his hand away and back to Claude’s bare skin. ‘Not tonight. Do you want to come?’

Claude shakes his head. ‘Want you to come on me, though,’ he mumbles into the pillow, like he’s not sure he can ask for it.

‘Yeah?’ Scott asks, carding through his hair gently. Claude nods, leans into the touch. Scott hums, leans down to kiss the nape of his neck. ‘Okay,’ he whispers, and reaches down to unbuckle his belt, unceremonious when he pulls his dick free and slides it through the slick of Claude’s ass, shiny and hot from the lotion and the beating. It catches just barely on his rim, and he thinks, just for a second, of pushing inside Claude, just a little, just enough to feel how tight he always is after Scott’s beaten him purple.

‘Legs together,’ he says instead, pleased with how even his voice is, and plants his knees either side of Claude’s pressed together thighs. There’s a couple of seconds before he sinks down into that warmth, where he just watches Claude breathing, watches his shoulder blades rise and fall and shift. He’s too skinny, Scott thinks, nonsensically. It’s playoffs. They’re all too skinny.

Scott lets his hips fall, and Claude’s glutes clench automatically. He makes a pained sound, turning his face to the side so Scott can see the way his mouth gapes a little more every time Scott thrusts.

If Scott were a better man, he’d be ashamed of how hard he gets hitting Claude like he does.

He’s not a better man though, and he spills onto Claude’s hot skin easily, sinking his teeth into his back and making him cry out.

He takes a minute to catch his breath, and climbs off the bed. Coaxes Claude into sitting up, and holds the peach out for him to bite into, juice spilling over his chin and into his lap, running down over Scott’s wrist; he licks it up when Claude’s eaten everything but the pit.

The gatorade is finished too, and a handful of the crackers, even though Claude makes a comment about not being a kid anymore when Scott holds one out for him.

Scott doesn’t remind Claude that he _is_ a kid, to him, anyway. He makes Scott feel ancient sometimes. Like right now, when Scott has to half carry him to the shower, washing the sweat and come and peach juice off with a soft washcloth. If Scott didn’t know better, he’d think Claude was asleep before he even got him back into bed and under the covers.

Scott climbs in next to him, and he’s facing away from Claude, setting the alarm on his phone, when Claude throws an arm around his waist and cuddles up to his back. ‘You being big spoon tonight, huh?’ he asks, amused. Claude nods into the nape of his neck and squeezes his middle. Scott laces the fingers of his right hand with Claude’s, and settles into the pillow, feels Claude shuffling up behind him until they’re touching from neck to ankles, one of Claude’s eternally chilly feet jammed between Scott’s own.

Scott falls asleep easy as anything, Claude already out, snuffling quietly into his ear. It’s nice, Scott thinks, even as he’s drifting off. He kind of wishes he had a better word for it, but it’s just-- nice.

 


End file.
